:: Article

Four Poems

By Michael D. Grover.


What other city
To be a Poets city
Than a city that was so neglected
                                                              so polluted
That the river burned

A city where the ghost of d.a. levy
A single shotgun hole in the head
Clean & quick
Chases the ghost of Hart Crane
Bloated & swollen
From the salt water
Down a sidewalk
Screaming asking him
Why he left this city
If you’re quiet you can hear them
In the right place at the right time
What other city
Could you hear this in


Reading Baraka

Heavy moon hangs
Outside my window
It tries to shine
Through the blinds
Writing under electric light
This is where it would find me
After reading words of a mystic
Blown away
Jazz playing over me
Into the dark night
Where the moon hangs heavy
Bright in the sky

If I hustled I might have more than this
But I have all I need
I know Poets traditionally have
But I’ve never been a capitalist
Daddy raised me that way
& daddy didn’t raise no capitalist
But some days it would be nice
Just to have a little more
I hear people speak of poverty
Knowing they don’t know it
But I guess it comes
In different degrees
& if you’re a Poet
Oh, it comes


Confessions Of An american Outlaw #26
(For Ray)

Part of being a Poet
Is tapping into the dark energy of the World
Walkin’ away
& trying to keep yourself normal
Forget these visions we see

& what’s normal I guess
What I mean is acceptable
Able to blend in
With so called normal folks
& who’s to call any of them sane
It’s all an act
A cover up
They’ve got shit buried so deep
Maybe they don’t remember anymore

Who wants to see me disappear
Like a homeless guy
I’m sure some that think they know me
People & their internet grudges
I’m gettin’ so tired
Feel I’m dissolving

Recession, depression
& I’m self medicating
Five bucks for the day
To drive someone in the building
To the Krogers
Because he ran out of baby wipes
& he’s really obsessed with baby wipes
& it’s sad
But it gives me something to write about
This I think some would say
Would be my self worth for the day
Five bucks
& a stupid Poem
But those people are idiots
& I don’t listen

Recession, depression
I know I’m just being selfish
But maybe I don’t want you
To give away your Earthly possessions
Especially to me
But this is how you choose to do business
Like you were sittin’ on the curb
Waitin’ for death to pull up or run you over
Like I said I’m just being selfish
But I probably wouldn’t wanna know
Death was that close
& I’m definitely being selfish
I cannot write that elegy right now
Without it changing me
I know we’ve all gotta go
& I don’t wanna seem bitter
But couldn’t you keep us good guys
Around a little longer
I don’t wanna sound selfish
But I’ve got too many fires to keep alive
Of too many lives passed before these tired eyes
Got too many elegies lately
& too few love Poems
That are not from memory
& what am I doin’ talkin’ to god anyway
He called collect
I’ve been thinkin’ about things lately
How I’ve been talkin’ to my spirit guide
My spirit guide talks back
That’s gotta be proof of something
Sittin’ in this supernatural building
Supernatural flies buzzing around
High above World outside
Ghetto wasteland Toledo
Streets are restless tonight
Ghetto & moon outside my window

Recession, depression
Yesterday a cameraman asked me
What Toledo is to me
I gave him an honest answer
He turned the camera off
Shook his head & walked away
I don’t sugarcoat
Never been a Hallmark writer
Day or night job
Don’t work third shift
At the Hallmark factory
Besides they outsourced that
To the third World
Where they’ll write for next to nothing
I’m not kissy pucker up political
You can drop all the names you need to
It won’t get you anywhere here
You can be phony & disingenuous
I’ll act like it’s alright
What does one have to pay
For an ounce of respect around here
I guess it’s not worth it
I don’t see the dealer on the corner
I’m not waiting around
Besides I’ve got nothin’ to prove
& no dues to pay anymore
I hear the sirens outside
I should go watch
It’s all that goes on


The Flesh Revealed Through A Tank Top

Her back beneath her shoulder blades
Looks like she should grow wings
Evolution or devolution
Don’t know which way she’s gone

I’d like to see her fly
Dark angel or light
Sitting in class
Preparing to be broken


Michael D. Grover is a Florida-born poet. As a wanderer he’s traveled and lived all over the country. He currently lives in Toledo, Ohio. His work has appeared all over the literary underground. Michael currently is a resident artist at the Collingwood Art Center in Toledo where he hosts a monthly reading. He runs the Covert Press. His newest chapbook is titled Confessions Of An american Outlaw. His first full length book will be out in early 2012 on Tainted Coffee Press. Michael is the current head poetry editor at Red Fez.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Tuesday, March 29th, 2011.